


Like Wind

by River_Autumn



Series: Gale Force Winds [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Butch/Femme, Canon Divergence, F/F, Genderbending, Headcanon, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, POV Lesbian Character, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/River_Autumn/pseuds/River_Autumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The peacekeeper starts in surprise, and looks at me sharply. His eyes narrow as he slowly--it feels like slow motion--takes it all in: the cropped hair; the men’s clothing on my tall, muscled frame; my square jaw; my square hands...I stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of girls with their dresses and carefully curled or braided hair. I clearly do not belong here."  The Hunger Games as seen through the eyes of Gale: eighteen years old, facing a final Reaping, struggling to feed and protect a family, burning with rage against the Capitol, in love with Katniss Everdeen. Born female, in a district where no one knows what it's like not to fit into your own skin, or how to grapple with your own identity when you're not like anyone else you know.</p><p>Canon-divergence: genderbending, LGBTQ issues, sexual content and unapologetic non-canon femslashery. Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games; I'm just looking at her world through my imaginary telescope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Girls to the Right

**Author's Note:**

> This WiP will follow the general timeline of THG events pretty closely, but I’m playing around with canon to explore gender, orientation and sexuality. Please read the posted tags and summary before reading on! 
> 
> I’d love to hear your thoughts, answer questions, and talk about this stuff with you! You can find me on tumblr at riverautumn.tumblr.com (blog title: a bag full of marbles and a jumble of crumbles. NOT to be confused with river-autumn.tumblr.com, who is someone else). 
> 
> Special thanks to ayouintervention (ninecrayons.tumblr.com) for incredible beta work and support. This has been submitted to femslashdaily's 2014 Ladies' Takeover, with a big thank you to Charley/femslashdaily (femslashdaily.tumblr.com) for the enthusiastic encouragement.
> 
> OK. Let’s do this.

 

We slip through the fence back into twelve. I hand off my game bag to Katniss and she slings it over her shoulder with her own. I’m headed towards the square, and they’ll just confiscate it if I bring it with me. Can’t have anything on you in the square on Reaping Day; guess they’re afraid someone might be hiding a weapon.  Or maybe it makes better television to see us all lined up empty-handed and helpless. Maybe the Capitol just wants to make a point that we’ve got nothing, we are nothing in the face of their inexorable justice and wrath. Whatever.  If I make it back from the reaping, I’ll get my stuff from Katniss later when our families have dinner together.  

 

Katniss is going home so she can get cleaned up before Reaping. It’s one of the few times her mother makes her wear a dress. Mine doesn’t bother anymore.  I’m going straight to the square because fuck it, if they’re going to take me, they’re going to damn well take me as I am in my trousers and work boots, with dirt under my nails and the scent of the woods still clinging to me.  

 

Katniss is right. I’m angry. I can feel my shoulders tense and feel the heat simmering under my skin as my long strides take me towards the square. I’m already starting to feel defensive. Reaping Day brings out the worst in me. That’s why I always go alone; I’m not fit company for anyone, and I need the walk to armor up.  There’s a whole gauntlet I’ve got to get through before I can get to the drawing of names, and it’s hell every time. I can feel my jaw clenching in anticipation.  Fuck, I hate this.

 

I get into the line for “A-H”, not bothering to look around. I know the drill by now. I step forward when it’s my turn. The peacekeeper looks up briefly, then reaches for one of the ledgers in front of her.

 

“Name.”

 

“Hawthorne, Gale.”

 

“Hawthorne….Hawthorne….” The peacekeeper is rifling through the ledger, trying to find my name.  He’s not going to find it. He’s looking in the wrong book. I say nothing and let him keep looking. I’m focused on looking over his head at nothing.

 

“How do you spell it?” He asks in frustration

 

I’m still looking over his head. I bite off a sigh. “I spell it G-A-L-E. Gale, like a wind.”

 

He lets out a grunt in frustration, and gestures to me. “Give me your hand.”

 

Here we go. I hold out my left index finger for the tester, like always. The tester pricks my finger, and beeps. And there it is, bright damning letters on the display. Just like every damn time.  

 

HAWTHORNE, GAIL. 18 Y.O. FEMALE

 

Dammit. _Dammit._  I hate this.

 

The peacekeeper starts in surprise, and looks at me sharply. I force myself to stand proud and upright; I will **not** shrink or slouch or try to cover myself up with my arms.  His eyes narrow as he slowly--it feels like slow motion--takes it all in: the cropped hair; the men’s clothing on my tall, muscled frame; my square jaw; my square hands. My cheeks start to feel hot; it’s like he’s looking for some hint of the girl that’s supposed to be lurking under these clothes. The signs are there if you look hard enough, even under my layers and bindings: the slight dip in the waist, the subtle curve of breast. The lack of Adam’s apple. I can feel his gaze traveling down my body, see the expression of forming on his face.  It’s been maybe a minute, but it feels like an hour and it’s damn well long enough. I shift my focus and look him directly in the eye.  Daring him to say something. Go ahead. Say something. I dare you.

 

The peacekeeper shakes his head and smirks, pushing away the ledger for Boys A-H and flipping through the Girls A-H ledger. This time he finds my name right away.

 

“Hawthorne, _Gail_.  All right. Girls to the right.”

 

I know this. It’s the same every year. I stoically make my way into the square itself and stand in formation with a group of girls who are more or less my age.   The girls are all in their best dresses. That’s not saying a lot here in Twelve, especially in the Seam where I live. For most of us our good clothes are the ones that are the least threadbare, the ones that have been mended the least and have the fewest patches. They’re limp from washing and washing, dingy from the coal dust in the air.  But everything is as clean as we can get it, and everyone is as presentable as we can muster.

 

It’s a point of pride. Twelve is the poorest district in Panem. The Capitol sees us all as backwards bumpkins, but we are not going to give them reason to think that.  Even me, for all my bravado, I’m still wearing my best, least-mended shirt.  

 

Still, I stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of girls with their dresses and carefully curled or braided hair. I clearly do not belong here. I look like some dumb boy who hasn’t figured out where I’m supposed to be, standing with the girls like a clueless goon.

 

It’s happened before. A few years back, a couple of Peacekeepers in for the day saw me standing with the girls, and proceeded to hassle me and hassle me until someone from the district quietly spoke up and explained things. I’m not sure which was worse, being hassled for standing with the girls, slinking over to the boys’ side under the peacekeepers’ taunts, or their crude stares and jeers once they knew what was under my shirt and slacks. By the time the mayor began speaking, my tongue was raw from biting it to stay quiet and I was almost shaking from the effort to not respond.

 

The next year, I almost tried to wear a dress, so I wouldn’t stick out so much. But the moment I tried to put it on, I knew it wouldn’t work.  It wasn’t just that I was too tall and angular, or that the dress didn’t fit on my solid frame.  It was...off.  Katniss puts on a dress and she is beautiful...willowy, graceful, almost soft. I put on a dress and I look...unsettling, unnatural.  Not like a girl.  More like a boy wearing his mother’s dress as a prank, or worse, like some weird Capitol freak. After a long, quiet moment, my mother took the dress back, and laid out a shirt and slacks that my father used to wear.

 

This year, I’m able to get into place without incident. So far. After exchanging brief nods and tired, grim half-smiles with the girls around me, I stare straight ahead. Katniss isn’t here yet, but she’ll find me when she gets here. I’m not going to look around, and draw attention to myself. I just need to get through this.


	2. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please read tags and summary before reading on! I do not own The Hunger Games; I'm tromping through Suzanne Collins' world in my chunky-heeled shoes.

As I stand in the square waiting for Katniss, my mind drifts back to our morning in the woods.  In my mind’s eye, I can see the mountains in front of me as I’m sitting in our spot, waiting for her.

She’s so quiet, I barely hear her as she stalks me. But I still hear her. I’ve been waiting for her, listening for her.  Besides, I always know when Katniss is around. After years of hunting together in the woods, working side by side, communicating with our eyes and hand signals to keep silent near prey, we’ve become tuned in to each other. We’ve learned to read each other without speaking.  When we do speak, we can tell each other anything. Out here in the woods, away from the prying eyes and ears of the district, we’ve shared pieces of ourselves that we don’t talk about with anyone else.  We’ve developed a way of _knowing_ , Katniss and I.  

I know she’s there, behind me. I can feel it. “You’ll have to do better than that, Catnip.” I call out, keeping my eyes on the mountains in front of me.  

“Dammit, Gale!” I grin at the sound of her voice.  I can hear her huff of good-natured frustration.  She thought she had me this time.  Not a chance.  

From my spot on the ground, I hold up a makeshift snare I twisted out of a scrap of twine.  “Oh, hey, look what I caught.”  Dangling in the snare is a tiny loaf of honest-to-god real bread from the bakery.  

“Oh. My God! Really?” Katniss tosses her game bag on the ground and sits next to me, greedily grabbing the loaf from my hands. She breaks it open and inhales deeply, before looking at the bread. “It’s got raisins and nuts!”  Immediately her eyes narrow shrewdly.  “Wait. What did you trade for this? Gale?” I shake my head, chuckling, and she grabs my sleeve. “Gale!”

“Nothing, no big deal! Just one decent-sized squirrel. I guess the baker’s a soft touch today. Feeling sentimental, maybe. Don’t worry about it. What took you so long this morning?”

“Prim.”

There’s no real response to that.  This is her sister Prim’s first Reaping. Prim is sweet and sensitive, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.  She’s been anxious for days, even though her chance of getting reaped is pretty much nonexistent.  Not while all those slips with my name are still in that bowl. Still, how do you say that to a twelve-year old kid? You can’t. Poor kid probably spent the night wide awake in terror but trying not to cry, just like my little brother Rory.  Rory’s scared of losing me.  Prim gets to be scared of losing her sister _and_ losing her own life.

The thought ignites my fury at the Capitol. Why should a sweet kid like that have to live in fear for her life? Why should my brother? Or any of us?  Fucking Capitol.  It’s not bad enough they have a chokehold on every aspect of our daily living. They have to show us they have a chokehold on our very lives. They have to throttle us with it until we choke on it. And then they have to make a fucking _game_ out of it.

So, yeah, I can see why Katniss is later than usual, why she needed to take time to see to Prim. Katniss’ world is her sister and these woods. And I’m pretty sure she would burn the woods to the ground to save a hair on her sister’s head.  Her entire life is sheltering and protecting her sister. Just like mine is providing for my family. Including Katniss.

Guess the baker’s not the only sentimental one.

That’s why I bargained so hard for that raisin bread. Katniss loves it, but will never trade for it herself. She won’t indulge in a treat for herself, especially not an expensive one like this,  when she can trade for more food for her family instead.  Usually, I’m the same way.  But today’s different. Katniss needs a little something to get through this day, and I need to be the one providing  it. Speaking of which--

“Well, since you’re so concerned about the bread, I don’t know if I should show you what else I’ve got…” I hold up my bag.

“What? What is it? Gale--”

I can’t resist teasing her.  She’s so easy to tease.  I sigh, “No, no, I don’t want to upset you. I’ll just go back to the mayor’s house and see if he wants the rest of these--oof!” Katniss sacks me and grabs for my bag. She reaches in and pulls out her prize, a collection of strawberries and blackberries. The strawberries are another rare treat; we usually sell them to the Mayor, who loves them. But Katniss loves them too, and I’m determined to take her mind off of her worry, even if it’s for a few minutes.   I pluck a strawberry from her hand, hold it up like I’m making a toast and say in my best stuck-up Capitol voice, “Miss Everdeen, Happy Hunger Games!”

She plucks a strawberry and toasts back in an equally snobbish tone, “And may the odds be ever in your favor!” she replies. We pop the berries into our mouths. I can’t tear my eyes off of her lips as she savors hers. As usual, Katniss has no idea the effect she has on me.

She flops back onto the grass next to me.  We’re both lying on our backs, looking up at the sky. Then quietly she says, “Thanks, Gale.”

I shrug. “It’s what we do.”  We look out for each other.  Protect each other.  We’ve got each other’s backs. “Next year will be your turn.”  Rory’s twelfth birthday is coming up.  Next year will be his first Reaping. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I will be a mess. Unless, of course, the Capitol spares me the trouble and invites me to the arena this year to be paraded and gutted for their entertainment….  

No. _**No.** _ I’m _not_ going to rant about it. Not today. Shut it, Gale.  Do not go off on the way the Capitol controls everyone through fear and hunger. Do not go off on how the Capitol pets and pampers its citizens while pitting the rest of us against each other. Or how sick it is that not only do we have to watch our friends get carted off and killed every year, we’re forced to celebrate it, for fuck’s sake.  How these Hunger Games--as horrific as they are--are just a distraction, a shiny little plaything the Capitol tosses up in the air to distract us all from the real game they’re playing.

What would happen we all stopped playing their game? What if people got fed up enough to smash the game board over President Snow’s head, smash their whole system to bits and send the pieces flying? What if everyone, every one of us in Panem, got angry enough to just put an end to it once and for all?

“How many times is your name in this year?”  she asks quietly.

And just like that, I’m deflated. Because for all of my fire and wind, I’m stuck playing the Capitol’s game whether I like it or not. Just like everyone else. “You know how many times, Katniss.” Of course she knows. Just like I know she’s got twenty entries in the damn bowl. “Forty-two.” Between Katniss and me, that’s sixty-two entries in the Girls’ Reaping bowl. Prim’s got nothing to worry about.  Honestly, Katniss probably has nothing to worry about. If it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be me.  

I shake myself out of it again. No. I’m not doing this right now. Not today. Instead, I hold up the raisin bread, taunting her. “Are you going to eat this bread, or what? I don’t want the baker to cry because we let his creation go to waste….”

“Gimme!”  Katniss leans over me and reaches across my body to grab at the bread. Her braid falls down over my shoulder like a silk rope trailing along my neck. Her breast brushes my chest briefly while she strains to reach the bread.  Her face is a hair’s breadth from my lips and I can breathe in her scent, a mixture of pine and soap and pure Katniss. If she were someone else, or if I were someone else, it would be so easy to wrap my arm around her and pull her all the way down on top of me. To feel her body stretched out along my length and feel her legs straddle mine as my hands rest on her hips, pulling her into me. Even easier to roll with her and pin her under my weight, to press her down into the grass. To bury my head in her neck and feel her pulse fluttering under my lips.  To hear her breathless gasps as I run my hands…everywhere… My brain shudders to a stop and I feel myself flush with heat.

Nope. No ma’am. This is another thing I’m **not** thinking about today.

Instead, I laugh and cry out, “Uncle! I give up!” I let myself go limp in mock defeat as she snatches the bread from my hand.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Katniss sits up abruptly, and dips into her own game bag. “From Prim…” she presents a small wheel of goat cheese. She quirks a little smile at me, holding it out in her upturned palm like she’s offering me a decadent treat. She knows I have a weakness for the stuff, especially with berries.  Mainly because I love to watch her eat them, the way she always closes her lips around that first mouthful of berries like she’s never had anything so good in her mouth, and she wants to savor out every last drop--but she doesn’t know that part. Or about the way I nearly lose my mind watching her lick the last little bit off of her fingers. She’s going to be the death of me, and she has no idea, it’s never even crossed her mind.

Nope. No. Absolutely not. Get it together, Gale.  “Well, thank you, Prim. ”  

We feast on berries, bread and cheese. We squabble a little about whether we should go hunting and try to sell something today (Katniss’ idea) or if that would be a criminally stupid idea, unless, of course, we’re looking for a fast way to get out of Reaping forever (my argument). Finally, I manage to convince her to go fishing instead, but just for our family’s dinners.

I love being out here in the wilderness, outside the district boundaries. These are the times I feel almost human under my skin, not like an oddity or a misfit. In these moments, I feel free from the constraints of life in the district, from all the rules and little boxes I can’t fit into, from all the pressures and worries that drum through my head day and night-- _How am I gonna keep everyone fed? How am I gonna keep the kids off of tesserae? What’ll happen to the kids if I get reaped? What am I gonna do when the kids are old enough for Reaping? How the hell can I protect my family when I can’t even protect myself?_  All of that falls away for just a little while as I sit quietly by the water, side by side with Katniss. It’s just me and Katniss, the woods around us and the mountains in front of us. I almost _like_ who I am when we’re out here.  I like who Katniss is, too; she seems lighter, freer sitting out here, with her legs stretched out and her face warming in the sun. Smiling, even laughing like when she was tussling with me like a kid over the bread. Being here together loosens something inside both of us.

The first smile Katniss ever gave me was in these woods. The first time I realized her smile warmed me from the inside out, that was in these woods, too.

Sometimes, I can see myself disappearing into these woods with Katniss and never looking back.  We could do it. We could even take the kids. I’d find a way, damn it.  We could be free of it all--the district, the Capitol, the Reaping--all of it. We could be this version of ourselves all the time. We could carve out a life in the mountains, live simply, survive off of the land.  We could breathe freely and be ourselves. We could be _this_ version of ourselves all the time.  I look out at the endless expanse of tree-covered mountains, and I can almost see it.

It’s so tempting, this illusion of freedom. But that’s all it is, an illusion. There’s no real freedom in Panem, not even in these woods. The Capitol won’t even give us this much.  We have to steal it, to risk death just to breathe clean air or find food for our families. Just the act of trying to survive is a rebellion to the Capitol, who have a million little ways to snuff out rebellion until we’re all burned out and beaten down, trudging like tired sheep to the square on reaping day.

No. I’m not thinking about that right now.  

*****

“Gale…”

I’m startled out of my woolgathering, and realize that someone’s standing next to me in the square. I didn’t even hear her coming.  It’s not Katniss, as I hoped.  It’s her friend, the Mayor’s daughter.

Katniss doesn’t make friends easily, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why she’s picked Madge Undersee of all people. The girl has “privilege” written all over her. She’s a perfect reminder of everything I hate out here. She’s everything Katniss and I could never be. She’s perfect.  Like everyone else at Reaping, she’s dressed to impress, except her best is a damn sight better than the girls from the Seam.  Her white dress seems to float around her like it was made for her, and her shoes look brand new. She’s even wearing jewelry; there’s a gold pin gleaming on the neckline of her dress.

Even if her clear blue eyes and pale blond hair didn’t scream “Merchant Class”, even if that pin didn’t look like it cost more than my mother made this year, that white dress is a dead giveaway.  No one from the Seam could wear a white dress; it would be covered in a sheen of coal dust the first time you wore it, turning it a drab “Seam grey” like everything else around us.

“Nice dress,” I mutter.  

Madge gives it right back to me. “Well, I want to look my best if I go to the Capitol to represent the district, don’t I?”

I forget that I’m trying to keep a low profile and turn to stare at her, dumbfounded.  Is she kidding?  Come on.  This pampered Merchant girl is not going to the Capitol. There’s no way. Not when there are people like me whose names are stuffed again and again into that stupid bowl. Where does she get off being so airy and making jokes about it like she’s going to go on some tourist trip to the Capitol, when in an hour some poor kid from the Seam--probably me--is going to be marched to her grisly death. Who does she think she is?

And that’s it. I’ve spent the whole day reining it in, trying not to go off, and I’m done. If Katniss were here, she would tell me that Madge doesn’t deserve it. She would be wrong.  If I were thinking, I’d tell myself that this is exactly what the Capitol wants, to pit us against each other so we forget who the real enemy is.  I would be right. But right now I. don’t. care. This merchant girl needs a dose of reality, and I’m going to let her have it.

I whisper furiously.  “How many times is your name in that bowl? How many? What, five?”

Madge looks down at her shoes, and smiles sadly. She whispers back. “Six. My birthday was Saturday.”

“Well, la-di-dah, Happy Birthday.  I had six entries the day I turned twelve, and six more every birthday after that. I’m eighteen now. You do the math. And there are a dozen like me, who stuffed the bowl with their names every single year so their families didn’t die in the winter. Katniss--your friend Katniss--has twenty. Tell me again how you’re going to the Capitol. Tell me, with all those slips, and your name on five. ”

She looks me straight in the eye, and says,  “It only takes one.”

She’s so quiet, so serious, that her response stops me in my tracks.  She holds my eyes as I stare at her. Her gaze is so level that it pins me in place. I don’t know what to make of it; no one really looks me in the eyes.  Katniss is too closed in and self-conscious to really make eye contact with anyone; it makes her antsy and uncomfortable.  My mother is usually too tired to look up at anything, and my brothers and sister are always in motion. Most everybody else is too reserved, or they avoid looking at me because they don’t know what to make of me.  

But here’s the Mayor’s daughter, looking straight into my eyes like she’s seeing something there. I’m frozen, staring back.  

She holds my eyes with hers, and whispers, “Good luck, Gale.”

Before I can respond, Katniss appears, her mouth set in a grim line.  If she’s surprised to see Madge and I standing here staring at each other, she doesn’t show it.  She seems lost in worry. She turns back briefly and flicks her eyes over the area for twelve- and thirteen-year olds. If I was standing next to her, I would reach down and squeeze her hand to reassure her.  As it is, I have to watch Madge do it. Then there’s a murmur as the officials begin to take the stage. Madge lets go of Katniss’ hand and we all turn our attention to the stage. Effie Trinket, that ridiculous Capitol prop, minces onto the stage and theatrically taps the microphone to test it. It squeals and echoes in the dead silence of the square.  Effie smiles and intones, “Welcome, Welcome, and Happy Hunger Games!”

I’m eighteen. My name is on forty-two slips. One way or another, this is my last Reaping.

Here we go.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Thoughts, comments and question are welcome--I love a great discussion on this stuff! You can find me at riverautumn.tumblr.com (not to be confused river-autumn.tumblr.com, which is someone else). Special thanks to ayouintervention (ninecrayons.tumblr.com) and others for amazing beta work and feedback, and to Charley (femslashdaily.tumblr.com) for starting the 2014 Ladies' Takeover.


	3. It Only Takes One

It’s different this year. Instead of the mayor’s usual droning speech outlining the history of Panem up to today’s monumental display of the Capitol’s power and mercy, we’re treated to a film. “All the way from the Capitol!” trills Effie.  Clearly Effie Trinket is just thrilled to pieces with this latest twist to the Reaping Ceremony.

It’s a pretty slick film. Dramatic and stirring, with overblown music and booming, thunderous sound effects.  As the narrator’s smooth voice delivers his ode to the Capitol, we’re assaulted with images of a war-torn country, of families torn apart. The music swells. We see an explosion that I guess is supposed to be the destruction of District Thirteen.  We’re told that the Hunger Games serve as a reminder to us all, so that this never happens again.  The film somehow makes it look like being a Tribute is some noble sacrifice.  Like becoming a Victor is an act of heroism and courage. I’m impressed by the sheer manipulative power of the film. If nothing else, the Capitol knows how to send a message. How to sell it. The Careers in One and Two must be wetting themselves to volunteer by the end of this thing.

I try to steel myself for the Reaping, preparing myself to hear my name.  Everything about this is going to suck for me, starting with the moment Effie calls out my name and I have to trudge up there in front of the cameras so millions of people can stare at me on their screens and whisper about me. So Claudius Templesmith can make gross little comments about my body during training. So Caesar Flickerman can ask me weird flirty questions about whether or not there’s a boy...or maybe a girl?...at home while I squirm through my Tribute Interview.  And then, just when I think I can’t possibly have any more fun, they’ll drop me into an oversized fishbowl so they can watch twenty-three kids try to kill me. Being a Tribute is a death sentence for anyone standing here today, but I’ll get to enjoy a special brand of torture before they kill me off, just because of who I am. And who I’m not.

But for the Capitol it’s all fun and games. Just a source of curiosity and gossip, a little extra flavor of excitement in this year’s Games. You see people like me all time in those Capitol television broadcasts, people who blur the lines between male and female.  It’s not like it is out here in our isolated, conservative little district, where there’s nothing like me anywhere.

I mean, how many times have I listened to guys from school watching some Capitol show and playing “He, She or It”, betting on whether someone is male, female, or none of the above?  Pretended not to notice when their eyes slide over to me? How often have I bit my tongue as they snickered as feminine-looking men in candy-colored wigs and impossibly high heels chat up women with masculine features and well-cut suits?  As they exchange baffled, bewildered comments about those who defy the idea of male or female altogether?  

The Capitolites pooh-pooh this quaint notion of gender and sexuality that rules the rest of Panem. Why let backwards District mores stand in the way of who you want to be?  They even have surgical alterations and enhancements to remake people into their ideal vision of themselves.  They say Laelia Nix, the Capitol escort for District One, was born male before her gender reassignment. That’s something they can do there. You go through a series of surgeries and treatments, and then you can be the person you want to be. I guess with all of the other things people do there to contort themselves into some bizarre idea of beauty, the idea of simply changing your gender is just another procedure to them. No big deal.  If you can tint your skin purple or change your face to look like a cat, why not change yourself into a man or a woman if you want?   

I try to imagine what it would be like to have the option to become someone else. 

The fact that they have that freedom and I don’t is just one more thing that makes me hate the Capitol even more. That’s never going to be an option out here in Twelve.  Even if we had surgeons like that, even if a Seam kid like me could afford it, it would never be allowed.  Not here in the district, where order depends on a everyone following a predictable structure: men and women get married, set up households, and have babies to send into the mines or the Arena. And so on and so on, one generation after the other. I’ll never fit into that structure. I’ll never escape it. I’m stuck.

Would I want to if I could? Would I go through with it? Go under the knife, or whatever they use in the Capitol, go through the surgeries and the treatments to make my outside match my inside? Would it be worth it, knowing that I was just another creation of the Capitol? The thought of becoming like _them_ sickens me. I have zero desire to be remade in the Capitol’s image.  To become one of _them_.

If my name is drawn today, though, I’ll have no real say about what they do to me to make me fit for Capitol consumption. I’d be completely at the mercy of the Capitol stylists. Idly, I wonder what they would do to me to make me “camera ready”.  Would they try to make me more girly?  Would they try to make a man out of me? Would they try to sell me as an anomaly, a freak, a curiosity?  Would I be a threat or a joke? What would they call me? The tributes are always clearly labelled “Male Tribute” or “Female Tribute”... what would they label me? I could pretty much count on getting a lot of the wrong kind of attention either way, that’s for damn sure. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.

The film ends with a loud crash of cymbals.  Effie moves on to the next order of business with a smile.  She’s probably relieved that Haymitch Abernathy, the district drunk and our only living victor, has fallen asleep during the film. Bubbling along, Effie minces to the glass bowls and warbles, “Ladies first!”

There are eight thousand people in the square and spilling out into the streets. Not one person makes a sound.  All eyes are on Effie and her hand floating over the Girls’ bowl.  She makes a show of it, as if she’s trying to feel which one is the perfect slip of paper just ripe for the picking. Her hand hovers over the bowl like a daintily manicured vulture. Suddenly, the vulture swoops in for the kill, plucking one slip from the bowl.

I suddenly feel someone grasping my hand.  I look down at the delicate white hand in mine. Madge. Madge? It’s so unexpected and out of nowhere that I gasp and instinctively try to snatch my hand away, but her slender fingers are surprisingly strong.  I glance sideways at her in confusion, but her face reveals nothing as she watches the stage intently.  Her hand feels soft, smooth, and paper-dry in mine. At first I think she’s shaking, and she’s trying to hang on.  Then I realize that it’s my hand that’s trembling.   _She’s_ trying to steady _me_.

Effie holds the slip aloft and minces back to the microphone.  In the eerie silence, her tiny heels sound like hammers on the stage.  She rips the tiny seal on the slip and opens it. She reads out the name in a clear ringing voice.  Madge drops my hand in surprise.

 It’s not me.   _It’s not me._

 It’s not Katniss, either.

 It’s Primrose Everdeen.

***

For a moment, I don’t even process whose name is called. In that first moment, all I can process is that the sounds coming out of Effie’s mouth don’t sound anything like “Gale Hawthorne”. So I’m a full two seconds late in actually hearing the words that do come out.  Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. It didn’t occur to either Katniss or me to be worried about Prim being reaped. Why would we? How is this possible?  Out of all those slips, how? It takes me another precious few seconds to absorb it. So by then I’m already a good five to ten seconds late in reacting.  Which means that Katniss is already screaming by the time I turn to her, and Madge is already trying to wrap her arms around her.  

I rush to Katniss and try to fold her into my arms, too. Why? I have no idea.  It’s the fastest and slowest ten seconds of my life.  We’re a jumble of arms as Katniss begins screaming, and tearing at us to let her go. I can see the Peacekeepers starting their charge towards us, ready to beat us into order if they need to.  I have GOT to do something.

“No. NO!! PRIM! PRIM!! NO!” Katniss scrambles out of our grasp and charges into the aisle to intercept Prim. She grabs at her little sister and shoves Prim behind her in a desperate attempt to shield her. Two Peacekeepers converge on her, but she won’t let them have Prim, not even when the Peacekeepers lock onto her arms.  She screams and struggles in their grasp as she tries to stand upright. “I volunteer,” she screams, “ I VOLUNTEER!”

It’s so sudden that the Peacekeepers let her go in surprise. Katniss stands upright, formal, beautiful and brave.  “I. Volunteer. As. Tribute.”

My world splinters and freezes. I hear nothing except the roaring of blood in my ears, the thundering of my heart in my throat.

I’m not even aware of stumbling into the center aisle towards Katniss, Prim, and the Peacekeepers. My mind is racing. I have to save Katniss. How do I save Katniss? Can I volunteer? Can you volunteer to replace a volunteer? Would they let me? All I know is that my world ends the minute they take Katniss away, and I can’t let that happen. I’m going to do it.  I open my mouth.

Prim starts screaming. “NO!  KATNISS!  NO! NO! KATNISS!” she cries, clinging to Katniss. Katniss tries to make Prim let go of her before Peacekeepers step in to put an end to all this. Even now, Prim is not safe. Not yet. Not until she is out of the public eye and away from the Peacekeepers.  “Prim,” she begs, “go back to Mom. Prim! Go to Mom. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Katniss looks up and sees me. Her eyes are helpless, pleading. “Gale….”  I open my mouth again to say the words that will save her. In that instant, her eyes harden into steel. They lock onto mine. She knows me so well, she’s read me in an instant. She knows what I want to do. She will never, ever forgive me if I do it. I will never forgive myself if I don’t. It feels like an eternity frozen in silent conversation, but it all happens in the blink of an eye. Katniss wins. She will always win.  Even if walking away from her is the hardest thing I will ever do.

She turns to Prim.“Gale will take you. Go with Gale.” Her eyes bore into me again, “Gale will take you _right now_.”  

I nod and sweep Prim up onto my shoulder. Now that she sees I am doing what she asked, that her sister will be safe, Katniss wilts into the Peacekeepers. That was the last of her strength of will.  I stride to the back where her mother stands, carrying Prim. Prim is screaming, weeping. The sound tears me apart. I finally find Mrs. Everdeen, who is standing stock still, already mourning her older daughter.  I set Prim down with her mother, and they disappear into the crowd.

I wheel around to face the stage, just in time to watch Katniss disappear into the Justice Building.  The sight burns into my brain like a bullet, it’s an arrow straight to the chest: Katniss, rushing towards death to save her sister. And me watching helplessly, too far away to stop her.

Then she’s gone.  Katniss is gone.

And any chance I had to save her from herself is gone with her.

 

***

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on gender identity, sexuality, and transitioning...
> 
> Everyone's journey in unpacking their gender identity and sexuality is different, as well as everyone's process in deciding to transition or not to transition. Gale generally thinks and speaks from a place of limited education, limited information on the subject and very, very limited options. Is Gale a butch lesbian? A "stone" butch? A trans man? How do you grapple with these questions when you're a teenager in rural Panem, with no real information, or context, and no real options? 
> 
> What little information Gale does have comes from the Capitol; Gale and others in the district think of it as a "Capitol thing." Of course, Gale hates everything Capitol, which just amps up Gale's sense of gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia that much more. 
> 
> So as a result, when it comes to talking about the process of transitioning, Gale's a pretty unreliable narrator. This is a reflection only of Gale's personal perspective, born out of Gale's circumstances at this point of the fic. Right now, there's no real way for Gale to know just how extensive the transitioning process is, or what is involved (true, in my headcanon, the Capitol has an entire reality TV series on the topic...but Gale doesn't really watch much television). Nothing in this chapter is intended to be dismissive or minimizing of a process that I know can be psychologically, emotionally, medically and socially grueling. 
> 
> Questions? Thoughts? Comments? Please hit me up on Tumblr (riverautumn.tumblr.com); I love to talk about this stuff, and I'd love to hear what you think! Special thanks again to ayouintervention/nine crayons (ninecrayons.tumbr.com) for amazing betareading support and to Charley the ladies of the 2014 Ladies' Takeover (thisistheladiestakeover.tumblr.com)!


	4. Five Minutes

_Chapter 4:Five Minutes_

In the commotion, I miss the second half of the reaping. I’m surprised to hear it was a merchant kid, the baker’s youngest son. I guess Madge was right. It’s unusual, but it happens.

I’ve seen Peeta Mellark sometimes hanging around the bakery when we make our trades, and he seems like a quiet, easy-going kind of guy. Stocky, pretty strong-looking, but not in your face about it. Not a jerk like his older brothers can be; one of them’s in my year at school, and he’s an asshole.

It’s also painfully obvious that he’s got a thing for Katniss; he’s always staring at her with this sort of hopeful look on his face. It's pretty irritating. He never says anything to her or asks her out or anything. He just gets red and flustered when he notices I'm watching him watching her. Maybe he’s shy.

Well, good. If he’s sweet on Katniss, maybe he won’t be a threat to her in the arena. As long as Katniss doesn’t take it into her head to protect him or, even worse, form an alliance with him and then feel honor bound to stick with it. Katniss is a sucker for an underdog. She can’t help herself.

After checking in with my mother, I trudge up the steps of the Justice Building with Prim and Mrs. Everdeen. We find the floor where Katniss and Peeta Mellark are locked up. There’s already a good-sized group of people waiting to talk to Peeta. Not so much for Katniss. We’re directed to the hallway, to wait outside the room where they’re holding Katniss. There are only two chairs, so Mrs. Everdeen and Prim sit while I pace the hallway under the watchful eyes of the Peacekeeper standing guard. Back and forth. Back and forth. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Finally, the door opens, and another Peacekeeper steps into the hallway. Mrs. Everdeen and Prim spring to their feet. “Can we go in?” asks Prim. “We’re her family.” Mrs. Everdeen puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, to steady her or to quiet her, I’m not sure.

The Peacekeeper nods at them curtly. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes. It’s an impossible amount of time to say goodbye.

Prim rushes into the room. Mrs. Everdeen looks at me questioningly, waiting to see if I’m coming with them. “I’ll wait out here so you have some time together. I’ll go next.” I tell her. Mrs. Everdeen nods wearily and takes a deep breath before she follows Prim into the room. The door closes softly behind her.

I drop into one of the chairs. Five minutes. Five short minutes to think, dammit. All of the things I dream of saying to Katniss--about what she means to me and how I feel about her--none of that matters. I’ll only have five minutes to talk to her, and I can’t waste a single one on my feelings. No. I have to find something to say that will keep her alive. 

\---

There’s a small commotion down the hallway, and the door to Peeta’s holding room bangs open. Mrs. Mellark comes sailing down the hallway, followed by her two lumbering sons. Trailing behind is Mr. Mellark. Mother and sons pass me without a glance, but Mr. Mellark pauses tentatively. Mrs. Mellark notices that he’s not following, and turns to him impatiently. He steps towards her and mumbles something, nodding his head towards the door behind me. Mrs. Mellark hisses something at him, and he shakes his head and mumbles again. Finally, Mrs. Mellark shakes his head and says sharply, “Well don’t be all day about it, then. I won’t hold dinner for you.” She looks me over and sniffs in disdain, screwing up her face like she smells something offensive and unpleasant. Then she turns on her heel and leaves with her sons.

Mr. Mellark wearily sinks into the chair next to me. He smiles at me, a sad, half-smile. He holds out a lumpy paper bag and asks, “Would you like a cookie? I brought them for Peeta and Katniss. Here, have one.” He holds open the bag and smiles at me, encouraging me to take my pick.

I frown, and shake my head. Cookies. Sure. That’s going to make everything better. Two kids are getting ready to board a train to slaughter, but hey, at least they’ll have cookies. Typical.

I’m being unfair. The baker’s not the enemy; he’s just some poor guy losing his kid, trying to do what he can to feel a little less helpless. We’re all just helpless. “No thanks,” I say. His shoulders slump and he falls into silence, holding the bag of cookies in his lap.

Out of nowhere, I start fixating on the cookies. It’s a riddle my brain won’t let go. The Mellarks were already in there with Peeta by the time we got to the Justice Building. When did Mr. Mellark have time to run home and grab some cookies? The bakery’s not that far, but there’s no way he had enough time to run home, pack up a bunch of cookies, and still get in and out of Peeta’s holding room. He would have had to leave the Reaping right away. How is that the first thing you think of when your kid is reaped? _My youngest son is going to the Hunger Games...wait, let me go get some cookies?_

Does he just...bring cookies to the Reaping? Just in case? Or does he bring cookies for whatever poor kids get reaped, whether they’re his sons or not? I suddenly get this mental picture of Mr. Mellark bringing cookies to the Tributes year after year, just to be nice. As some small, sad effort to make things a little less horrible for the scared kids locked in these rooms. I don’t know how I feel about that.

_Gale, ENOUGH. Focus. Think._

The door to Katniss’ holding room swings open. Dammit. Five minutes have already flown by, and I’ve been spending the time obsessing about stupid cookies. The Everdeens come out. Prim is holding on to her mom’s hand as tightly as she can. When she sees me, she rushes to me and hugs me. I wrap my arms around Prim, and look over her head at her mother. Mrs. Everdeen’s face is unreadable, as if she’s folded into herself. It’s like she’s already buried her daughter.

Mr. Mellark stands up hurriedly. “Violet...Mrs. Everdeen...I...brought some cookies for the...for Peeta and Katniss,” he mumbles diffidently. “Oh,” replies Mrs. Everdeen, a little surprised. She smiles sadly at Mr. Mellark, “That was thoughtful of you, Bann. I’m sure Katniss will appreciate them.” She gestures to the open door. Mr. Mellark opens his mouth to say something, but then shakes his head. He nods at Mrs. Everdeen, then goes into the holding room and quietly closes the door.

\---

Prim is still burrowed into me. She pulls away just enough to look up at me. “Maybe she can win. She could win, right, Gale?” she asks in a trembling voice.

Oh. Oh, God. I look at Mrs. Everdeen, but she’s looking away, not meeting my eyes. I look back at Prim, whose eyes are begging me to tell her what she wants to hear.

“I asked her to try,” Prim whispers, “and she said she would. She promised she would try.”

I can only imagine what that must have done to Katniss. Trying to put on a brave face for her little sister, making a promise that she has no idea if she can keep.I look down at Prim and smile. “Well, then,” I say, “If Katniss promised, then that’s all there is to it. It’s as good as done.” _Please let that be true, I think to myself._

“We’re going to wait here, for you, okay, Gale?” Prim asks, “Then we can walk back together after you see Katniss.”

“You bet,” I tell her.

“Do you still want to have dinner together?” she asks shakily. “Mom is making fish stew, and we have the milk from Lady, and the rabbit that K-Kat-” her breath hitches as she tries not to cry in front of everyone.

I wrap her even tighter in my arms, and press my lips to the top of her head. I lighten up my voice as much as I can and ask her, “You still want us to come over, Primmy-prim?” Prim nods tightly. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” I soothe her. “I’ll stop by home to get the others, and we’ll come over, okay? I think my mom is making something special, too.” I look at Mrs. Everdeen, and say, “We’ll be there.”

Mrs. Everdeen stiffens. I can tell what she really wants is to be alone, but that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to take a chance that she’ll slip back into her grief and abandon her family. Katniss pulled them all through it last time, but Katniss...it’s my job now to care of Katniss’ family, to make sure Prim is okay, and that starts right now. Her family is mine.

Mrs. Everdeen gives in, resigned. Her shoulders sag the tiniest bit. It’s so subtle, you could miss it if you weren’t watching.

If Katniss’ family is mine, that means Mrs. Everdeen, too. I’m not going to let her abandon Prim, but I can give her some space. Some time to herself. That much I can give her. “Tell you what, Prim, while your mother sees to the stew, why don’t you go on over to my house, and let everyone know what’s happening? Then when I come home, we can all go together to your house for dinner. What do you think of that?”

Prim looks at me questioningly, and turns to her mother. She sees what I see right away. “Okay,” Prim says, and takes her mother’s hand. “Come on, Mom, let’s go home. I’ll check on Lady first, then go to the Hawthornes’. Okay? Bye, Gale.”

“See you in a bit,” I reply. I watch them go down the hallway and sink down into the chair.

The door opens. Mr. Mellark nods at me, with that same sad half-smile as before. He looks around briefly, and then shuffles down the hallway.

As I stand up to go in, another door halfway down the hallway opens, and a blonde girl in a white dress steps into the hallway. She looks down one way, then the other towards me. No, not towards me, at me. It’s Madge. She walks quickly and purposefully towards me.

“Have you gone in yet? Have you seen her?” she asks me urgently.

“No, I’m going now,” I answer.

Madge grabs my hand and stops me. “Let me go in first.”

“What? Why?”

“Gale, please. One minute. I have to--”

The Peacekeeper breaks in, “Whoever’s you’re going in, you better do it now. She’s getting on the train at three o’clock.”

That stops us in our tracks. It’s almost three now. There’s no time to bicker. Madge’s eyes lock with mine. Piercing and intense.

“Sixty seconds.”

I nod. “Go.”

She squeezes my hand. She turns and strides into the room, letting the door slam behind her.

I begin pacing the hallway again in frustration. This is it, this is all the time I’m going to have. Enough with the cookies, and the townies, and everyone else with swirling emotions and tears. This is all the time I’ve got to get it together. Katniss needs me to get it together. 

The door opens again, and this time I’m ready. Madge pauses on her way out. She puts a hand on my arm and looks up at me. “I’ll be outside when you’re done,” she says softly. I just nod. I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think about after. I can’t think about that right now. I’ve got five minutes. Maybe.

Five minutes.

In I go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait in between chapters! I've been laying out the outline for the rest of the chapters, and doing a lot of reading/writing/thinking, but mostly I've been really, really swamped at work now that it's finally stopped snowing. :-/
> 
> Thanks as always to ayouintervention/ninecrayons@tumblr for thoughtful, incisive beta reading and support. 
> 
> Comments and responses welcome, or you can hit me up on tumblr at riverautumn. I love to talk about this stuff. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
